Chainers Torment

CHAPTER 21

Thirty miles up the eastern road from Cabal City, the Samite sanctuary was filled to capacity. Nibahn the healer was on her third trip to the apothecary for clean bandages and sleeping herbs. The majority of her patients were expected to live through the night, but only if she and her staff worked round the clock. She believed utterly in the Order, but she despised the brutality of the crusat. The Samite way of universal tolerance was the only way she knew to bring about a better world.

Halfway back to the hospital, a whispered voice from the shadows hissed, "Healer." Nibahn adjusted the thick bundle of bandages and clay bottles under one arm and approached the sound. "Hello? Are you wounded? All are welcome. All are safe. Will you come forward?" She could make out two human figures in the darkness, two men of roughly equal size. One of them took a half step forward and spoke.

"Kindness for kindness, Samite. No one walks away from a Cabal debt." Nibahn felt something round and hard strike her forehead, and she fell back in a swoon. Though conscious, she was too stunned by the blow to see or move. Someone wrapped metal bonds around her hands, and dragged her roughly by the collar into the shadows.

"You understand why you're here?" the whispering voice said to something in the shadows. The only reply was an angry, ominous buzz.

"Then go," the voice said, and Nibahn heard no more.

Major Teroh made a brief obeisance to the angel guarding the door and entered the hospital. The Samites were deluded fools, but their healing arts had been handed down for thousands of years and were still unmatched.

Inside, the Major scowled as he took in the rows and rows of wounded troopers, aven and human alike. Teroh cursed Laquatus for giving him the idea for the raid, but he could not blame everything on the ambassador. The merman had gotten them into the heart of the city with some sort of water teleportation spell, just as he had promised. It was a risky plan from the start, and the Cabal had offered far more resistance than Teroh had expected.

Still, he thought, as he continued to tour the hospital, it might not be a complete loss. The Cabal still held the Mirari, but now that the crusat was open and declared, other Order commanders from all around Otaria were contacting Teroh, looking to join his army. It would be well worth the loss of a few hundred troopers if a few thousand rose up in righteous fury to avenge them.

There was a scuffle at the entrance, and Teroh turned to see what was causing it. A tall, thin man dressed in what appeared to be black paper was attempting to enter the hospital, and the angel had drawn her sword to block him. The man's face was featureless, hidden under a wide-brimmed hat.

"To arms," the angel cried. "Hostile on the ward." She couldn't take flight amid such close quarters, but she spread her wings anyway to keep the man from darting past her. Teroh still did not understand the concern in her voice. The intruder looked about as substantial as a scarecrow, and he wasn't even armed.

The angel struck first, something Teroh had never seen before. Usually they waited for their opponents to strike or threaten an innocent before they attacked. From his vantage point across the room, he could see the angel and the intruder in profile. She had driven her sword straight into his torso, where it met no resistance as it plunged through. The scarecrow didn't flinch.

The angel turned her head and screamed across the room, "Run! In Serra's name, run now!" The staff of the hospital looked to Teroh, and he shrugged. Most of the wounded were dozing, and few of them were fit enough to get out of bed anyway.

"Sister," Teroh raised his voice as he addressed the angel, "what are you-" He stopped when he saw a clinging gray smoke waft out of the scarecrow's chest wound. Teroh realized the intruder wasn't dressed in paper, his skin was made of paper-or something very much like it. His chest had not been cut by the angel's sword, it had been torn like parchment.

The mist floated in midair between the two figures for a moment longer, and then it rushed at the angel. The smoke began to bubble and boil as it touched her face, her neck, her arms, and she screamed, something else Teroh had never known an angel to do.

"Swords," he called as he drew his own, and two more angels and a handful of on-duty troopers responded.

As her comrades approached, and the mist churned and boiled across her flesh, the first angel flailed wildly with her sword. It passed harmlessly through the mist, but whenever the blade touched the scarecrow, his papery skin split, and more gray mist wafted out to join the assault. The angel was in agony, but she refused to abandon her post.

A second angel lunged forward with her sword. There was a swish and a rustle, and the intruder's head dropped backward, connected to his torso only by a few papery threads. His body still stood, however, and now the gray mist poured out of his neck to attack the second angel.

"Stop cutting him," Teroh barked, but it was too late. Whatever filled the scarecrow's body was caustic and was quickly stripping the exposed skin off the two angels. Teroh grabbed a nearby Samite by the shoulder and said, "Bring bed sheets. Towels. Anything that we can wrap him in to staunch that smoke and get him out of here."

The first angel dropped where she stood, her face stripped down to the bone, and the smoke was not dissipating. In fact, it seemed to be growing, larger and thicker as it consumed the rest of its first victim. Teroh stared in horror as he realized it wasn't smoke at all. It was insects. Millions of them, each no bigger than a pinpoint, stripping the flesh from the angels' bones by the mouthful. And with each mouthful, they were growing bigger. "Fire," Teroh yelled to a trembling trooper. "We need fire." The buzzing of the tiny swarm grew louder and more furious as the insects themselves grew larger and larger. The second angel fell, little more than a winged skeleton. The bugs on the first angel were now as big as wasps, and Teroh could see their savage mandibles working as they consumed their victims. The Samite he had ordered to fetch bed sheets came forward with them, but the healer's eyes were locked on the ever-increasing swarm that blocked the only exit.

"You," Teroh pointed at a trio of soldiers, "and you and you. That thing has to be driven outside. Charge." "Charge, sir?"

"It's going to kill us all! Gods damn it, I gave you an order! Now charge, troopers! Defend the Order!"

Two of the three soldiers rushed at the deflating hive man and were promptly engulfed in gray mist and voracious insects. The third stood frozen while his partners died screaming. Teroh stormed over to the man and ran him through where he stood.

"Coward," he snarled.

The bugs were now as big as carrier pigeons, and they started to spread out across the hospital. New cries of pain issued out from bandaged faces and cloth partitions. The last angel on the ward leaped in and slashed one of the larger insects in two. Both halves reformed into smaller versions of the original and promptly attacked the angel's face.

The air was thick with the sounds of agony and the terrible buzzing of the hive. The insects were so numerous and so large that it became impossible to see clearly. Teroh held his sword loosely in his hand, and scanned the crush of screaming people. There were no ranks in the room anymore, however, only panicked individuals fighting for their lives.

I must escape, Teroh realized. I have to get word of this to Bre-tath. Though he was livid with rage at the thought of another retreat, Teroh knew his original thinking was correct. It was worth the loss of a hundred, or five hundred, or a thousand, if ten thousand more would march to replace them.

Teroh turned his sword on the cloth wall of the tent beside him and dove through the rent. He got to his feet and looked back into the hospital, but there was nothing he could do for those who remained inside. He could only take their deaths to Bretath and use them to raise more troops for the crusat.

Teroh turned and sprinted for the command tent across the compound. Without a torch, he didn't see the two spears jammed deep into the ground with a length of chain stretched neck-high between them. He felt it, however, as the chain and the spears held, cracking his larynx and slamming him flat on his back. Choking, dazed, and helpless, Teroh stared up at the starless sky. A calm, careful tread approached him. Whoever it was carried a light source on his chest, and Teroh watched a tall, slender man with braided hair and hollow eyes lean over him.

"Hello, Major." Chainer's dagger was out, and he laid the tip of it on Teroh's jugular vein. "The Cabal is here, and everywhere. Your crusat ends now. Goodbye, Major."

When he was done, Chainer wiped his dagger on the long grass and stayed on the eastern road until the commotion in the sanctuary, the command tent, and the barracks died down. Under his direction, the bugs focused their attack on the soldiers and stayed away from the ranch and stables. He knew the insects would continue to gorge until they had consumed everything in their immediate area, growing larger all the while. Then, they would turn on each other.

Chainer practiced making snakes while he waited. He was getting quite good at it.

When he activated the First's teleportation spell several hours later and returned to Cabal City, the only things left alive in Teroh's camp were an unconscious Samite healer and a stable of fine white chargers.

The first thing Kamahl saw when he awoke was Chainer. In the cramped, candlelit room, the Cabalist crouched over him like a smirking vulture.

"The Cabal is here," Chainer said, and Kamahl groaned.

"How long have I been out?" Kamahl's body felt heavy, drugged, and leaden.

"Just over a day. You should lie still. You've been wounded, and you aren't done healing yet."

"Wounded?" Kamahl searched his fuzzy memories. "I was fighting at the gates. We were breaking them on the walls. I remember a glowing knight, and the smell of… burning air. Then everything went white and jagged and hot."

"You were laid low by a justicar," Chainer said. "They generate righteous lighting, or some such nonsense. We don't know what they are, really, but that's twice now they've surprised us. You and I are going to have to do something about that."

"I'm ready," Kamahl said angrily. He tried to rise, but only his head made it off the pillow.

"Not yet you aren't. Lie still, or you'll never heal." Kamahl lifted his arms. They also felt heavy, and he could see thick scars running up both forearms. Or were they calluses? There was a sickly odor in the room that was making it even harder for him to concentrate.

"I've come to show you something," Chainer said. "We've been waiting for hours. You're not one of those people who jumps out of bed ready for the brand new day, are you?'"

"My arms feel wrong," Kamahl said. "My chest is too heavy. Did I breathe in some of that righteous whatever? I feel like I'm gasping."

"You were in pretty bad shape. I couldn't let those Order fools take you, and I didn't trust our own leeches to patch you up right." Kamahl blinked. "So who healed me?"

"I did," Chainer said proudly. "I arranged to have the Mirari brought in, so I could use it to fix you. Worked like a charm, too." "The Mirari? Where is it?"

"Safely back in its vault," the First said. He had been hidden behind Chainer, but now he came forward to Kamahl's cot. "It was beautiful to watch, however. Chainer remains one of the few people who can touch the Mirari and use it without destroying everything around him."

The barbarian turned his head and tried to breathe as shallow as he could. The Cabal Patriarch was the source of the sickening odor. Or was he? Kamahl realized his face had been burned, too, and it felt tough and callused like his arms. When the First retreated back behind Chainer, Kamahl could still smell something tainted. Unclean. With a growing sense of dread, he realized the smell was coming from him.

"Am I zombified, or just gangrenous?" he asked seriously. Chainer laughed.

"Neither. That's a side effect of my treatment. It should be temporary."

Kamahl's head was clearing fast. "Your treatment? Since when are you a healer?"

"Since never. But I am a maker. I make things, living things. And with the Mirari's help, I was able to make you whole again. Instead of an entire creature, I only created the parts I needed. The leech helped me graft them in place, but I think you'll agree it's a seamless job."

Kamahl lifted his heavy arms again. He felt more calluses on his chest, feet, and deep under the short ribs on his left side. "More light," he said, and Chainer obligingly brought the candle closer.

Kamahl's hands were covered in stiff copper snakeskin that had grown into and merged with his normal flesh. The new skin was nearly smooth, and the pattern was delicate, but Kamahl could feel the toughness of the individual scales. The edges of each scale were sharp. Kamahl ran his finger underneath one, and the finger came back bleeding. He stared at his own blood for a moment, then looked up helplessly at Chainer.

"You turned me into a snake?"

"No," Chainer chided, "of course not. I patched a few holes and touched up a few surfaces. It'll breathe and grow just like normal skin. But it's even sturdier than the stuff you lost. Anything less than a full-on sword thrust just bounces off." He smiled. "What do you think?"

"Get it off me." Kamahl spoke calmly but forcefully. "Now."

Chainer looked crushed. "But… I can't. It's a permanent graft."

"I didn't ask for it. I don't want it."

"You're tired," the First stepped forward again. "You need some time to adjust. It's a major change, after all, and-"

"Get the Mirari in here," Kamahl said, "and undo what you did."

The First's voice grew cold as the grave. "I'm afraid that suggestion is not a possibility. It's also remarkably ungrateful."

Kamahl shut his eyes. "Neither of you understand," he said. He lashed out and took Chainer by the shirt front, holding his new skin in front of Chainer's face with his free hand. "We barbarians don't do this kind of thing. Chop off my arm, and I must learn to fight one-handed. Put out my eyes, and I must learn to fight blind. This-" he released Chainer and shook his scaly fists at his friend- "is an abomination. It goes against everything I've ever believed." He lowered his arms. "I'm sorry, Chainer, but you've made a mistake. Thank you for your gift. I will not accept it."

"We should let Kamahl get some rest," the First said. "Sleep, barbarian. Everything will look different in the morning." He glided out of the room without another word or a second glance.

"You're really angry," Chainer said.

"Not angry, Chainer. Serious."

Chainer shook his head. "I'm sorry, Kamahl. I truly am. The First is right." Chainer followed his patriarch's path, but he backed out, so he could keep an eye on Kamahl. "You should get some sleep. We'll talk more in the morning, and I'll see about… I'll see what I can do."

Kamahl remained silent for the next several hours as his anger and frustration grew. He couldn't stand the feel of Chainer's gift. The snakeskin itched and chafed his natural skin raw wherever the two touched. He could already feel how it threw off his timing and muted the messages the rest of his body continually sent to his brain. Worst of all, it marked him as a coward and a weakling who couldn't even overcome his own injuries without spare parts from the Cabal's nightmare pantry.

He couldn't stand it-would not stand it. Kamahl let his mind drift, back in time to his training at Balthor's feet, back in space to his home on the Pardic Mountains. Pardic was not the tallest range on the continent, but it was one of the deepest. Tribal legend said that the Pardics ran right to the center of the planet, where the temperature was so hot that the elements and mana alike were combined into one glowing, red-hot ball of fire and molten rock. Kamahl struggled to control the energy he was gathering. This would be an extremely difficult spell under ideal conditions. As it was, Kamahl would need every ounce of concentration he could muster to keep from immolating himself completely. He stared at his hands and focused his thoughts on the sensation of the alien skin. The same sensation echoed in his side, on his legs, on his face, all the places Chainer had treated. He isolated those sensations, in effect isolating those parts of his body and those layers of skin that were no longer his own.

In Kamahl's native language, there was a word for the act of sterilizing and sealing a wound with fire. The word was "cachede," and Kamahl pronounced it now.

The huge barbarian growled and gritted his teeth as the snake-skin grafts all burst into flame simultaneously. He could not clearly recall the pain of the original injury, but he was certain that this was far worse. The horrid stench of burning flesh filled the room, and noxious smoke stung his eyes. Kamahl clenched his fists as they burned, holding them aloft so as not to ignite the bedclothes. When the last of the scales was burned away, the fires on Kamahl's body sputtered and died. He sat in complete agony for a moment. Then he shoved himself out of the bed and clumsily began bathing his fresh wounds with water from the bedside basin. I will live, he promised himself. I will heal. I will fight again under my own power, on my own terms.

And I will leave this place with the Mirari in my fist, or I will not leave it at all.